I walked along the stalls of the holiday market, looking for a gift for a friend. The shopkeepers crowed their wares’ various virtues, the stalls spilling gold light onto the dark grey pavement. The mica set into the concrete glittered like the gold-paved streets in the mythical New York of song and tale. I paused at a striped structure, all red and white as if they were trying to disguise them as candy canes. Glittering abstract shapes spun on thin, clear wires.

“How much?”

“Ten,” the woman said, her British accent heavy. We talk a while before I buy one and move on.

There are so many people in this city, all of different origin. America, the melting pot. New York, the gateway. I belong in this city, born to the twinkling skyline and the audacious honking of taxis, the hostility of the subway riders and the abundantly black clothing. This is my home, despite the pollution masking the stars, slowing the flow of the rivers.

I looked up at the black, starless sky and smirked wryly. My home.
The sky lit with a bluish flash, a crackling line of light ripping sharply through the sky. I should have headed back to the subway, but I didn’t feel the need. I’d always liked the rain; the gentle exhilaration of standing as lightning lit the sky. I had watched it crackle and strike skyscrapers, the rods within carrying it to the ground as the earth met the sky.

I had reached the end of the gold light and sparkle of the holiday market, but here in the dark was a less organized set of tables and stalls. Artists of all ethnicities sitting silently beside their work, letting it speak for itself. There was so much beauty here, lost with its starving, emaciated creators in their oddly awkward skinny jeans and dangling, artsy shawls; just looking for a dime like everyone else. A young man smiled at me, his table full of paintings littered with dots. A large tree painted like a photo stood proudly in a courtyard, its leaves perfectly circular orange circles. I wanted it so much my chest hurt, but I’d already spent all I could. His eyes followed my hungry gaze, their color lost in the encroaching darkness.

“Oh, yeah. I like that one too,” he said. He looked up at the darkening sky as it rumbled ominously and lit up with another flash. “It’s gonna come down any second now.”

“Well, it’s that time of year.”

“You said it.” He sighed and rose from his chair. “I guess I better pack up.”

A single drop fell from the heavens and landed on my nose. I blinked and wiped it clean, but when I pulled my hand away the small space had erupted into a flurry of motion. Like dominoes in a line, each stall owner noticed his or her neighbor’s movement and began to pack up their wares. A woman selling brightly colored porcelain figures began to enclose them in bubble wrap, pulling apart a hugging couple and placing one in a box. I imagined the remaining figure frowned.

“Need a hand?” I asked the man. He was struggling with a painting, trying to get it into a plastic bag. He grinned sheepishly.

“Yeah, Could you hold the bag open?” I walked over and did as he’d suggested. “Thanks.”

I helped him with the rest and he grinned at me again. I wondered who he was. A college student trying pay his own tuition? An aspiring Picasso? All these people of various ages here, just trying to live their lives. Where were they going?

“Thanks a lot.”

“No problem,” I said, smiling back. “I couldn’t buy a painting, but help doesn’t cost money.”

He laughed. “Maybe not yours.” He looked up at the sky; the drizzle was getting worse. “Well, see you.”

“Sure.” I watched him walk one of the boxes to a van.

Yes, my city was polluted, but that didn’t stop anything from growing here. Morning glories sprouted up in the cracks of the sidewalks and climbed up buildings, dandelions infecting any patch of grass they could find. I smiled to myself and walked to the subway. Time to go home.